Wednesday, August 19, 2009
The end of an era
No, I'm not quitting blogging. (Although as you can probably tell from my infrequent posting, that day is probably coming sooner rather than later.) The era of which I speak is the era of me living on my own.
Six and a half years ago, indelibly scarred by microwaved vegetarian sausages and the Den of Filth, I jumped off the roommate train and set about creating my fortress of solitude. I collected the perfect IKEA furniture and salvaged knick-knacks, relished walking around in my underwear and singing Patty Griffin songs at the top of my lungs, and teetered dangerously close to the precipice of getting set in my ways. In short, it was perfect.
But then 2009 happened: The economy tanked, my pay went down as my rent went up, and I found myself a delightful new hobby (more on that soon, I promise) that kept me away from home most nights of the week. Suddenly, I realized I was spending nearly an entire paycheck every month on a place I rarely spent any time in. Looking over my budget, I realized something had to give: I could either cut back on travel and cute dresses, or I could look for a cheaper place to live. The choice was pretty clear.
I rekindled my affair with my old friend Craigslist and began browsing the "roommate wanted" listings. I met my fair share of slightly shady characters--including the guy who only wanted to rent out rooms in his house to girls, and the chick who casually mentioned during the interview that her ex-husband might be moving in--but somewhere along the way, I managed to find a trio of girls who seemed nice and normal, and whose house actually felt like a home, rather than a hostel.
Three weeks ago, I bid my fortress of solitude good-bye. It was hard; I'm not going to lie. I spent more than half a decade building up this Carrie-Bradshaw-Bridget-Jones-single-gal-on-her-own-in-the-city life, and it was difficult to leave that behind. But the fact is, pretending to be Carrie Bradshaw or Bridget Jones is not worth hundreds of dollars every month (not when I can spend those hundreds of dollars pretending to be a globe-trotting jet-setter).
And besides, I'm kind of in love with my new place. It's an old Cape with hardwood floors and a screened-in porch, and my room has wood-paneled walls, a sloping ceiling, and a little alcove with a window where my desk sits, which I like to think of as my atelier (mostly because I've always wanted something I could call my atelier, and this is probably as close as I'm ever going to get). And so far, adjusting to living with three other people hasn't been that hard. That's probably due to the fact that the four of us are rarely ever home at the same time, but it's also kind of nice to be able to share a bottle of wine with someone or have an audience for my sarcastic comments about TV shows (what a surprise, huh?). At the risk of jinxing myself, I should've done this years ago.
No, I'm not quitting blogging. (Although as you can probably tell from my infrequent posting, that day is probably coming sooner rather than later.) The era of which I speak is the era of me living on my own.
Six and a half years ago, indelibly scarred by microwaved vegetarian sausages and the Den of Filth, I jumped off the roommate train and set about creating my fortress of solitude. I collected the perfect IKEA furniture and salvaged knick-knacks, relished walking around in my underwear and singing Patty Griffin songs at the top of my lungs, and teetered dangerously close to the precipice of getting set in my ways. In short, it was perfect.
But then 2009 happened: The economy tanked, my pay went down as my rent went up, and I found myself a delightful new hobby (more on that soon, I promise) that kept me away from home most nights of the week. Suddenly, I realized I was spending nearly an entire paycheck every month on a place I rarely spent any time in. Looking over my budget, I realized something had to give: I could either cut back on travel and cute dresses, or I could look for a cheaper place to live. The choice was pretty clear.
I rekindled my affair with my old friend Craigslist and began browsing the "roommate wanted" listings. I met my fair share of slightly shady characters--including the guy who only wanted to rent out rooms in his house to girls, and the chick who casually mentioned during the interview that her ex-husband might be moving in--but somewhere along the way, I managed to find a trio of girls who seemed nice and normal, and whose house actually felt like a home, rather than a hostel.
Three weeks ago, I bid my fortress of solitude good-bye. It was hard; I'm not going to lie. I spent more than half a decade building up this Carrie-Bradshaw-Bridget-Jones-single-gal-on-her-own-in-the-city life, and it was difficult to leave that behind. But the fact is, pretending to be Carrie Bradshaw or Bridget Jones is not worth hundreds of dollars every month (not when I can spend those hundreds of dollars pretending to be a globe-trotting jet-setter).
And besides, I'm kind of in love with my new place. It's an old Cape with hardwood floors and a screened-in porch, and my room has wood-paneled walls, a sloping ceiling, and a little alcove with a window where my desk sits, which I like to think of as my atelier (mostly because I've always wanted something I could call my atelier, and this is probably as close as I'm ever going to get). And so far, adjusting to living with three other people hasn't been that hard. That's probably due to the fact that the four of us are rarely ever home at the same time, but it's also kind of nice to be able to share a bottle of wine with someone or have an audience for my sarcastic comments about TV shows (what a surprise, huh?). At the risk of jinxing myself, I should've done this years ago.
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